An Interview with Godot
by Graph
Summary: An account of my visit with the esteemed prosecutor. Twoshot. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS. Implied Godot/Mia.
1. Interview

I had tracked him down. I had scoured Google Maps for hours on end, scrutinizing every pixel of every screen to pick out this man from the masses. I had done my research, learning every detail. I had found the apartment of one Diego Armando-a dead man. Today, I would interview him.

My notebook and pen clutched in my trembling hands, I pressed the doorbell connected to number 215 of the Rosewater Ravine Apartment Complex. The place had a brisk, breezy feel to it, and I could see why my subject had chosen it as his home. A few flowers of assorted variety were spread neatly around a planter next to the door, and a faux pine wreath was strung across it. For such a small patio, he had made the most of it. Adjusting my choker, I awaited his approach.

A low, throaty voice came from beyond the door's peephole.

"Who is it?"

"I am looking for a Diego Armando. Is he here?" I replied.

"No…" The voice seemed to lose interest.

"Well… Is there a Prosecutor Godot?"

"Ha…! One moment." Several locks clicked open, and the door swung outward. Shoes scraping on the doormat, my subject stood before me, smiling with an intoxicating charm. My stare scarcely left his so-called visor, a red glass-and-metal mask that covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Though supposedly rather young, his hair was an unnaturally pure white, kept in a clean, chaotic pattern of wisps and spikes. His left ear was pierced by two steel clips, and his chin covered with the black stubble of a slight goatee. He wore a dark teal shirt with a khaki pinstriped vest, his muscles showing ever so slightly through the fabric. On each of his sleeves, a black band of elastic pinched in, revealing that he was far fitter than one would think.

Not my mental image of a lawyer. He gave off an intimidating aura, and, though I was used to dealing with formidable, unnerving people, I confess that I stuttered when initially addressing him.

"Puh… Prosecutor…?"

"I am he. And what may I call you?" he asked hoarsely, as if his voice were never meant to be so quiet.

"Let's just say my name is Graph. I have come for your interview with the Weekly Journal." I managed to avoid stammering this time, as the words were pre-programmed in my mind. I had introduced myself that way for as long as I could easily remember, and had never confused my words.

"Ah, yes. That. Give me a moment to flag a cab, Mrs…"

"Miss."

"_Ms._ Graph. I know of a pleasant coffee house not far from here. If you will be so kind…" He strode from his doorway and stomped down the stairs, pausing at the street curb to hail a passing taxi. The yellow hybrid pulled up to the sidewalk, and Godot motioned that I should get in. We clamored into the back seat and rode in silence.

XXX

A few minutes later, our driver abruptly stopped and demanded that Godot pay his fare. My companion unceremoniously forked over a 5 and a handful of quarters and stepped from his seat, pausing only to hold the door for me. He smirked, his charisma so intense that my hair stood on end. I exited the taxi and distracted myself with my hairband while he leaned against the coffee house's glass front door. The evening streetlights gave his outline a vermillion glow, and I felt myself forced to stop for a moment and look him over. Quite a handsome person, this Godot, I admitted reluctantly.

I entered the Black Magic Lounge with a slight apprehension. It was an art-deco themed "coffee bar", apparently a frequent nighttime haunt for the thirsty anarchist or beatnik. The stylish glass tables were predominantly occupied (mostly by young couples on a night out), and a live jazz band was belting out a rhythm in the back corner of the main room. I had never much cared for places like this, but it mattered not; so long as I could hear his response, Godot could be interviewed in the place of his choosing.

We took a seat at a table in the front corner of the lounge, as to avoid the blaringly loud background music. Godot ordered a specialty blend (his "usual", if my memory serves) for himself and a "half-caff" for me, then dismissed the server with a flick of his wrist. He rested his cheek on the back of his left hand and let his other arm hang at his side, tucked under the table. I could almost sense his calculating eyes… Of course, his visor made it all the more difficult to read his expression. With this slight awkwardness I began.

"So, Prosecutor… I hear you are rather inexperienced."

"Correct. I have only prosecuted a handful of trials." He grinned smugly. I wondered why, but figured it best not to ask.

"Is it true, however, that you were originally training to be a defense attorney?"

"…? No. Where did you here that?"

"A… A reliable source," I answered. I was on to his secret, and he knew it.

"I prefer to keep personal information to myself, Ms. Graph." His tone had darkened and gone hard. The smile faded from his lips.

_If you're so secretive, why be interviewed…_ I wondered, but remained silent. He registered the puzzled look on my face, and explained.

"I'd assumed you would be asking me about the cases."

"Yes, of course… To my knowledge, you have yet to get a guilty verdict in one of your more recent trials. I find it difficult to believe that it was only coincidence that a man by the name of Phoenix Wright was the defense attorney for each of these cases. You even dropped one of your current cases when he took another one… State versus Byrde, I believe. Are you _trying_ to meet Mr. Wright in court?"

The smirk returned, and he was about to answer when our drinks arrived. A proper-looking man in a black tailcoat distributed our orders: a large, steamy cup of dark coffee for Godot, and a creamier, smaller beverage for me. It was something both men had recommended for me, a "half-caff", complete with cream, sugar and a tiny toothpick-sized parasol. My subject nodded in approval to the waiter and cast the man off into the kitchen. After he had gone, Godot sipped his cup contentedly. He answered the question still forming in my mind.

"Blacker than a moonless night, hotter and more bitter than Hell itself… That is coffee. My one true indulgence in this world."

"I see… But, I must ask that you answer my question, Prosecutor." He wasn't getting away that easily. From the way that he stared intently into the velvety darkness of his beverage, I could tell that he was avoiding my inquiry. "…Perhaps I should rephrase: Do you know Phoenix Wright outside of the courtroom?"

He looked up. "Not personally, no. You could say that we are… acquaintances."

"You have only taken cases which he has. Surely, this is not by chance…?" I pressed. I had my theories, yes, but I needed an answer. Was this man the one I sought?

Godot took another gulp of coffee, then shook his head. "Sometimes the bitterest coffee comes from the darkest bean. This seems logical, but is it only coincidence? Or are the two related?"

I glared at what could only be assumed to be his eyes, trying my best to look intimidating. The "evil eye" had helped me get out of many a tight jam. Making sure to sound forceful, I interrogated him again: "Mr. Godot! No one can believe that this is mere coincidence. The way you sneer at him in court… How _exactly_ do you know this man!?"

"Whoa. Ease up, Kitten. I was simply using a metaphor."

His use of linguistics was not what was bothering me. I sighed. "Perhaps I should cut to the chase, Prosecutor. I am… searching for someone who was reported "dead" several years ago. I know that I may sound insane by saying this, but I think that _you_ are the man I seek." I gripped the table, trying to subdue my anxiety. "His name… Your name… is Diego Armando."

He took a swig from his cup and seemed nonchalant. "Prove it."

"Wha…?"

"You heard me. If you want to accuse a lawyer, be ready with some proof. Evidence." He paused. "…Unless you don't have any."

I slipped an image from Google Maps onto the tabletop. "I searched 'Diego Armando', and this was the address I found you at… Mr. Godot." On top of my first paper, I placed a printout of computer code. "This is your e-mail address, . So, you tell me: Have I _really_ got the wrong man?"

Godot chortled. "Are you even _really_a journalist? Are you _really_ called Graph, or do you simply call yourself that?" He smiled mockingly, taking a quick swig of coffee.

My assignment was simple: Find the connections between Phoenix Wright and Godot, and do a story about their most recent case. Of course, this meant tracking down someone who, for all intents and purposes, was dead and _interviewing them_.

I am not on good terms with my editor.

"This is what I was sent to do."

"How do you know who '_darmando_' is? And why does it matter? How could Diego Armando be tied with the attorney on my most recent case…?" He grinned smugly, taking a victorious sip of coffee and shaking his head. Perhaps he thought he had stumped me; perhaps it was nothing more than the familiar feeling of bringing a porcelain cup to his lips as he watched someone's ego wither and die.

Either way, he was bitterly mistaken.

"I have here a transcript of the blog of username AceAttorneyGrossberg. He used to chat for hours about his apprentices, Diego and Mia, and how _they were quite clearly in love._" I let that sadistic delight of making someone look incompetent steady my shaking hands. "He mentions their last names, Armando and Fey, here." Passing Godot a copy of the text, I pointed to the entry marked "Day 84".

He adopted a look of confusion after scanning over the document a few times, and titled the paper back and forth to see it from different angles. Though I had to strain to see Grossberg's annoying red font, it wasn't _that_ difficult. Godot cursed under his breath, something along the lines of "Damn red lettering!" I waited for him to finish fiddling with the paper before continuing, and he soon gave up on whatever he was trying to do..

"Mia Fey is tied to Mr. Wright by several murder cases… Mr. Godot…?"

He sipped his coffee, wiped his lips and stared at the floor. I had hit a nerve with murder, apparently. "I… I have the case reports here. Your murder and the murder of your girlfriend are among them… Need I say more? There is a common denominator: Phoenix Wright. I'll make this easy for you: Yes, you know Mr. Wright _very_ well. And you hate him, don't you?"

"…" He stared back at me, his fist clenched around his empty mug. It began to crack under the pressure of his grip, and he let out a long, agonized sigh. Silence hung in the air, the tension heavier than a rope stretched to its breaking point.

"…Well done, Graph… Ask whatever you want. I will try to answer."

I gave him a woeful glance and continued. "I… I have very little to ask you specifically. I want your story."

"Story…?"

"Yes. To say that your life is unfortunate… would be the understatement of the century. I just want you to tell me a bit about your life, the murders… People have never seen this side of you."

Godot took a small sip of coffee and peeled off his visor. He set the mask on our table, and I barely stopped myself from gasping.

His eyes were covered with a translucent white film, and his irises were almost colorless. Bloodshot and weary, they gazed at me, seeing nothing. Those eyes held pain, fear, anger, and a terrible, guilty remorse. He could not directly meet my own gaze, and the reason for his visor became abhorrently clear.

In a softer, raspy tone, he spoke. "Her name… was Dahlia. She took everything from me. Just one drop of whatever hellish chemical she put in my coffee that day… It destroyed my life. My body. Everything. She put me to sleep, just when my life was coming together. I had the love of my life by my side, I had was one of the best defense attorneys at Grossberg's firm… Everything was perfect. But that wasn't the worst part. I was asleep the one time it mattered… When Mia's life was on the line. And that spiky-haired freak… He failed her, just like me. If not for his negligence, she might have lived. But the real reason why I hate him is… because he didn't care. Just look at him. He doesn't even miss her. He just took her job and her office, and went on with his life. Mia deserves better than that."

He toyed with a ring on his left pointer finger. "This is exactly what it looks like," he mumbled, referring to the silver trinket. "We were… going to be together for the rest of our lives. I think she still has hers."

I fell temporarily silent, unable to comment on his dismal tale. All that I could manage was, "Thank you. The article should appear on the 27th."

"Article…!" The color began to drain from Godot's face as he replaced his visor, horror flashing onto his features. It was immediately masked by his usual cockiness. "Sorry, Kitten, but this is all off the record. Just between us. I won't let you publish it. …You need my permission, don't you?" His sudden forcefulness terrified me, and I had the sinking feeling that I didn't have a choice in the matter.

"I-I'll see what I can do."

He sighed in relief. "…Thank you, Ms. Graph."

XXX

As I endured a pulse-pounding, migraine-inducing taxi ride home, I couldn't help but think that I would interview Godot again. It somehow felt that this wasn't to be our last goodbye, our last coffee shared, and I wondered if or when we would meet again.

I could have never guessed that I would soon be standing in a prison visitor's room, interviewing a convicted killer and bringing him his favorite beverage.

I really need to have a stern talk with my editor.


	2. Follow Up

I will never know how I managed to convince my editor to let me do a follow-up with Diego Armando. Maybe it was his shocking courtroom confession. Maybe it was that strange, authorative aura he had. Maybe it was the lack of caffeine in my boss' bloodstream. Whatever it was, I found myself strapped into a glossy yellow taxi that smelled faintly of chocolate and ham, trying to keep an eye on the ever-rising fare and praying that my coffee didn't scald me.

I was to visit Godot in prison.

After flashing my press pass to the first set of guards, I was lead down a long, tiled hallway, the sound of our footsteps echoing coldly. They opened the steely door for me, and I stepped inside, the realization of where I was hitting me like a gust of wind. As the door shut behind me, I shivered, proceeding to the officers that separated me from my interviewee.

A blonde guard in his thirties spoke to me. "Hey. You can't take drinks in." He motioned to the two cups of coffee clutched in my shaking hands.

"One is for me. The other is for him."

"…You with the press?"

"Yes, sir. …Will you give this to Godot on my behalf?"

"We gotta check everything, miss. But, yeah, if it's clean, he can have it." He nodded and sniffed. Reluctantly, I passed him one of the beverages, and he handed it to another guard. The second man disappeared from view.

"When will Godot be here…?" I asked.

"We're getting him now." He wheeled a chair from a dark corner of the visiting chamber, and I took a seat, trying to ignore the unpleasantly sticky substance covering the cushion.

The door on the other side of the room swung open, and in stepped my subject, dressed in blue-white striped prison garb. I was faintly surprised to see that he still had his visor (until, of course, I remembered its purpose). His snowy spikes seemed to droop, and he walked in a dreary, defeated slump. Somehow, he had maintained his goatee, but he had a disheveled, subdued look to him, like a freshly tamed animal.

When he saw me, he straightened up, in an effort to look less pitiful. He flashed an attempt at his familiar, cocky smile and leaned against the other side of the visiting room's table.

"Ah… Miss Graph. When I was told a reporter was visiting me, I thought it would be the tabloid-sucking scum that give your kind a bad name. I'm glad they sent you, Kitten."

I tried to calm my nerves, but ultimately failed. "So…"

"I can guess why you're here. The trial, right? You want to 'get inside the mind of a killer'?"

"I suppose that's one way to put it. But I intend to make you look human, not a bloodthirsty beast as some of the …other publications may portray you."

I paused, worrying that I may have upset him, but he seemed calm and emotionless. I took a grateful breath and continued. "…Describe your feelings on the case."

He was silent for a moment, still standing as his hand clenched the table. Even a week later, the anxiety of committing murder still hurt, and I could sense his pain as he collected his words.

"…Dalhia Hawthorne - I spoke of her last time - can be called many things. A killer. A demon. A revolting, repulsive excuse for a human being. But, even I have to admit: she plans ahead. She knew how to get revenge on a person, alive, dead or somewhere in between…" His words seemed choppy and unnaturally rigid, and I can't tell you what a relief it was that a guard interrupted him.

"We checked the coffee. Do you want it now…?" The warden shuffled awkwardly, sensing the intensity of the moment he'd cut short. He held out the Styrofoam coffee cup from earlier and offered it to my subject.

Godot seemed momentarily conflicted, unsure of whether to take it or not. Cautiously, almost reluctantly, he accepted my gift, and nodded to the guard to leave. The guard seemed happy to give us a wide berth, and scuttled away, eyes glued to the floor.

"Ha…! For years people have told me to cut back on coffee. A week was almost long enough for me to kick the habit. Still," He gazed into the cup and sniffed it. "One sip won't do any harm-" Godot brought the drink to his lips, took the smallest of tastes, and found himself forced to sit down. Floored by the coffee, he muttered a nostalgic "Oh, God!" and titled his head back in the chair. A long sigh passed his lips, and he set the coffee on our table. Slowly, his casual smirk returned, and his hands steadied.

"Thank you… for that."

"Don't mention it. But tell me more about the …incident. Did you truly only kill to save Maya Fey, or did you have other motivations?" Godot gave me an odd look (it was hard to tell, but he cocked his head an inch or two), and I realized that his connection to Maya had not yet been published due to the massive amount of red tape. I flashed an awkward smile.

"I was in the viewing gallery. I confess this case had me captivated."

"I see." He paused to sip his coffee. "You ask rather penetrating questions for a young journalist barely employed by an obscure neighborhood newspaper. And, honestly, I'm not so sure how to answer. It's had me perplexed.

"Maybe I did do it for the girl, to save an innocent life, and Misty's death was an unfortunate by-product. Perhaps I did it for Mia, to save her closest friend. But the more likely explanation… is that I did it for myself.

"I hated that pink-cloaked heathen"-Dalhia, I assumed-"to the point of near-obsession. All I could think about was taking her delicate, demonic little skull and…" He made a slight grinding gesture with his hands. "You get the picture. And when I finally saw her - finally, after all those years of waiting and watching as she silenced the innocent for her own gain - I took my opportunity. Do I regret it? Of course. But had Dalhia been in her own body instead of that of a sinless woman…" He finished his coffee and slowly tore the foam cup down the center. "…My answer would have been drastically different."

Though I trusted this man - more than most convicted murderers, at least - his prominent lack of remorse for taking a life made my skin prickle. I had twenty minutes to kill (metaphorically). And, if all else failed, my glass fountain pen could be shattered and used to hold him back.

He must have sensed my fear. "Sorry, Kitten. Sometimes I forget you're listening."

I tried to seem nonchalant; people know it's a bad sign when a journalist is afraid of you. "It's fine. But I must ask: Do you think of yourself as the killer of Misty Fey, or the savior of Maya Fey?"

Godot appeared to lock eyes with me, the infra-red glow of his visor briefly flickering out. He chuckled softly, but his smile quickly faded. "You're standing next to a set of train tracks. One side has a school bus full of children on it; the other ends with a 500-foot drop down a cliff. A train is coming. Do you pull the track switch and watch innocent kids die, or do you do nothing and let hundreds plummet to their fate?"

I paused, letting his hypothetical scenario sink in. What _would_ I do?

"I'm supposed to be interviewing you, Mr. Godot. Not the other way around."

"But think about it," he urged. "No matter what you do, someone dies. No matter what you do, you will think of yourself as a killer. Society will, too - omission is as great a sin as commission - but that doesn't matter. What does matter is whether or not you'll lie awake at night and wonder if you should have just let those people go sailing down a trench." He paused and glanced at the torn coffee cup. "I pulled the switch."

I felt awful for suspecting him of violence; he was a good person in a very bad situation. Still, I managed to ask him, "If you could relive that day, but in the same circumstances, what would you change?"

"…Nothing. If I was there again, watching a possessed mother prepare to stab her own daughter, I would do anything and everything necessary to stop her. If she fought back, and one of us died because of it… I guess that's how it is. So, no, Kitten, as much as I despise being marked as the one thing I hate, as much as it hurt to kill an innocent friend… I would do it all again if I had to."

"To save Maya?"

"Because I can't see another person die at the hand of Dalhia Hawthorne. I couldn't take it." He was silent for a moment, then punctuated his sentence by slamming his fist loudly on the table. Godot swore under his breath for a few seconds, perhaps trying to fight back the memory.

I waited for him to recollect himself, my next question taking shape on my paper. "Why didn't you speak to Phoenix Wright before the incident? You could have warned him or convinced him to stay away from Hazakura."

He put his right pointer finger to his visor in a sort of thinking gesture, occasionally tapping gently on the glass. "Anger had blinded me to the truth. I had lost sight of my purpose, and all I could remember was a hunger for revenge. I wasn't thinking clearly. I know now that I could have stopped him. But I didn't, and a part of me thinks there's a reason for that." He straightened his zebra-striped prison jacket and sighed, expression halfway between a smile and frown. "Then again, if I had stopped this whole thing from happening…" Godot trailed off, a grim inflection in his voice.

I could all but finish his sentence. "You truly cared for Mia, didn't you…?"

He nodded solemnly, visor glowing dimly in an emotion that I figured was grief. "Her time with me was like a dream. Blissful, you could say. But, like a dream, it was gone when I opened my eyes, living on in some other world. I hope - know - I'll see her again. No one can be gone forever." Godot tapped the table between us. "I'm proof of that."

"Do you bear any ill-will toward Phoenix Wright for your conviction?"

"None at all. If anything, I owe that man a debt. He opened my eyes to reality when I was too selfish to do so myself, and he made me come to terms with my actions and the cold new world in which I live. As for my conviction… It was duty, nothing more, and he has my respect, both as a lawyer and a person. And I know…" He choked on the rest of the sentence, as if straining to say it. "I know he watched over my favorite Kitten as well as he could. If anyone made a mistake here, it was me, not him."

"What will you do after you serve your sentence?" I asked, reviewing my notes.

"I've never been one to think of the future. I live in the moment. I'd love to go back to defending, but I doubt they'll give me my badge back. If that's the case, I might take a vacation somewhere… I'll figure it out." He grinned at me, somehow less self-assured than when last we met. It felt a bit more sincere and less intimidating.

I took a second, then a third glance at my paper. Though Godot was not someone I was likely to forget, I had taken pages of notes, and had somehow reached my final question. At first, I thought that final punctuation mark would be a massive relief, but I was surprised to resent it as much as I did. After a few unsuccessful attempts at scooting my sticky-wheeled chair closer, I stood and pushed it a foot or so toward my subject. I could not afford to miss this. I asked the question slowly, savoring it.

"Was it all worth it?"

I never wrote his answer; he spoke with his bittersweet smile, and I could all but see his shining, sightless eyes. I knew.

XXX

Godot contacted me about 16 months later. He had only been charged with manslaughter, criminal negligence and obstruction of justice, as the State wanted to avoid the embarrassment of convicting a _second_ prosecutors of first-degree murder. He had gotten out early on good behavior, and, if parole didn't count, had walked away from the ordeal legally unscathed. He and I met in my favorite local coffee joint, and spoke of politics and murder in ironically sunny terms. His plans for the future had changed little since his interview, but he remained confident, tackling problems as they arose. I haven't seen him since then, but I like to think that I stuck out in his memory, as he did in mine.


End file.
